Annie was neither able nor willing to enter into an argument on the matter, although she was not satisfied. She would rather think than dispute about it. So she changed the subject in a measure.
"Did ye ever hear o' John Milton, Tibbie?" she asked.
"Ow! ay. He was blin' like mysel,' wasna he?"
"Ay, was he. I hae been readin' a heap o' his poetry."
"Eh! I wad richt weel like to hear a bittie o' 't."
"Weel, here's a bit 'at he made as gin Samson was sayin' o' 't, till himsel' like, efter they had pitten oot's een—the Phillisteens, ye ken."
"Ay, I ken weel eneuch. Read it."
Annie read the well-known passage. Tibbie listened to the end, without word of remark or question, her face turned towards the reader, and her sightless balls rolling under their closed lids. When Annie's voice ceased, she said, after a little reflection:
"Ay! ay! It's bonnie, an' verra true. And, puir man! it was waur for him nor for me and Milton; for it was a' his ain wyte; and it was no to be expecket he cud be sae quaiet as anither. But he had no richt to queston the ways o' the Maker. But it's bonnie, rael bonnie."
"Noo, I'll jist read to ye what Milton says aboot his ain blin'ness.
But it's some ill to unnerstan'."